


diplomatic passive aggression

by thesilverwitch



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crack, Eurovision, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-06 00:01:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4200129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesilverwitch/pseuds/thesilverwitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When asked if he wanted to represent Spain at next year’s Eurovision, Isco did the logical thing and said what any rational person would: <i>hell no</i>. Eurovision is where people with no talent and no appreciation for real music go. Even though Isco’s music has become more and more commercial as the years passed—he has to put food on the table, alright?—he still holds a small shred of dignity that tells him to stay far, far away from the song contest.</p><p>It’s only when the head of the Spanish Eurovision committee, and who even knew there was an actual committee just to organise their entry every year, tells him he can have total control over his song that Isco stops and asks, “Total control?” </p><p>The head of the committee, a guy with far too much product in his hair named Sergio Ramos, smiles. “Total control."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Biting Nature Of My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written in full co-op mode by two people who are no longer in the fandom, but would like this fic to live on for prosperity and laughter.

When he was asked if he wanted to represent Spain at next year’s Eurovision, Isco did the logical thing and said what any rational person would: <i>hell no</i>.

Eurovision is where people with no talent and no appreciation for real music go. Even though Isco’s music has become more and more commercial as the years passed—he has to put food on the table, alright?—he still holds a small shred of dignity that tells him to stay far, far away from the song contest.

It’s only when the head of the Spanish Eurovision committee, and who even knew there was an actual committee just to organise their entry every year, tells him he can have total control over his song that Isco stops and asks, “Total control?” 

He hasn’t had full control over his own music in years. Sure, the lyrics are all his and so is the melody, but he usually works with three or so other people who tell him what’s appropriate and what’s not. Apparently a ten-minute long number played on a banjo and sang in a low hymn is never appropriate. Absolute ass.

The head of the committee, a guy with far too much product in his hair named Sergio Ramos, smiles. “Total control,” he repeats and that’s how Isco finds himself participating in the sixty-first edition of the Eurovision Song Contest. His song is about piranhas and the strength of nature. There is not one, not two, but three electric guitar players, a massive set of drums and, just for the heck of it, a flautist.

It is, if he’s quite honest, his best song yet.

— — —

There are details that Isco doesn’t ask about when he signs his contract with Sergio that, looking back, he should have inquired about.

One of those details is hair and makeup.

“For the last time, I am _not_ bleaching my hair,” Isco says. He is trying to hold back his temper, but he’s pretty sure that if Sergio comes at him with that bottle again someone’s hand is going to get bitten off.

“But it will look cool and match Carvajal’s beard,” Sergio argues. Isco scoffs.

“No offence, but Carvajal,” Isco glances at the man in question, "is an idiot.”

Carvajal shakes his head and lifts both palms up in a placating gesture. “None taken,” he says.

“Alright, then let’s compromise,” Sergio says. Isco squints and takes a step back. Some form of trickery is afoot.

“What kind of compromise? I’m not changing anything about the song. You said I could have this,” he says.

“Yeah, yeah. I know that. I mean for your look. If you won’t bleach your hair, then let’s do something with the makeup,” Sergio rummages through the bag on the conference table. They’re having a meeting about Isco’s number for Eurovision and have been in the room for three hours now. Isco is beginning to regret his choices. “Let’s give you eyeliner.”

Isco tries to say ‘no’. He really does, but Sergio Ramos, as Isco had been informed by their tech guy, is not a man, but a hurricane. This is how Isco’s makeup consists of emo eyeliner and two black streaks across his cheekbones (“It makes you look rugged,” Sergio informs him. Isco is pretty sure it only makes him look like an idiot) and how he’s forced to wear leather pants and a shirt that is far too tight across his chest.

He does manage to say ‘no’ to the cape, which is better than nothing.

“You’re singing about piranhas and you’re bitching about a cape?” says Carvajal, Isco’s bassist and a traitor to the cause of helping Isco not look like an ass. “The cape is cool, man.”

“The song is cool. The song is true to who I am. It’s about fighting for what you believe and not giving up,” Isco says.

Carvajal stares. “It’s about piranhas and eating your enemies.”

“Well, that too,” Isco says, shrugging. Just because some people didn’t understand true art it didn’t make it less magnificent.

The Spanish Eurovision committee consists of Isco, his band, his tech guy and Sergio Ramos. Iker, his tech guy, spends half of his time running around with his eyebrows fixed in a permanent scowl attempting to create whatever new staging idea Sergio has had (and will probably discard the next day). He seems nice enough though, in the rare moments that he isn't tearing his hair out. They all arrive together two weeks before Eurovision begins to give them time to set everything up properly. In return, they have to make a few budget cuts, which means no makeup artist, which in turn means Isco has to get his makeup done by the few artists Eurovision provides.

He meets his artist for the first time before the first dress rehearsal, in a pokey little room that's just about big enough to hold Isco, his makeup artist, and a guy with neon pink hair and a septum piercing asleep in his chair. His makeup artist, Claire, is lovely and talented, but unfortunately on Sergio's side when it comes to the heavy eyeliner and black streaks. 

"It's dramatic!" she insists, smearing her fingers across Isco's cheek. "It screams 'look at me, I'm the star!'"

_Help me,_ Isco screams internally, _I'm going to look like a raccoon._

He smiles vaguely at her and she grins back at him, since this apparently means that she's won the argument.

"Okay, now stay here. Your hair stylist will be in soon, but I've got other looks to do." She ruffles his hair and leaves the room. Isco indignantly un-ruffles his hair.

"If it makes you feel any better," a voice says, "I think that it looks terrible."

Isco sits bolt upright and looks around wildly, surprised to find neon pink hair guy is awake and staring at him with a smug grin on his face. Isco resists the urge to roll his eyes at him. As if anyone with neon pink hair is one to talk.

“Thank you. Your lovely critic is deeply appreciated,” Isco says. His usual sarcastic bite is enough to make anyone worried about losing their limbs back off, but neon pink hair guy just lets out a loud guffaw. 

"Don't try and tell me you actually think you look good," the guy says. "I saw your face when she got out the eyeliner."

“You’re not exactly one to talk. If you want I can buy you a mirror or maybe a new pair of glasses,” Isco says. If his mom were by his side right now, she’d have cuffed him on the head for being rude to strangers. Neon pink hair guy doesn’t seem to mind, though. If anything, he just finds Isco’s snark infinitely amusing.

“I’m rocking this hair colour,” he says, closing his eyes as he reclines in his chair, picture perfect of deep-set comfort.

“Are you now?” Isco asks as he peers at him.

Neon pink hair guy grins at the ceiling, showing off his pearly white teeth. “Oh, definitely. I look hot, don’t deny it.”

Isco doesn’t.

He does, however, remember that the eyeliner was the first thing Claire put on him, while neon pink hair guy was supposedly sleeping.

"Wait, have you been awake this whole time?" Isco stares incredulously. The guy nods, nonchalantly, like that's not in the top ten list of creepy things to do when you're in a small room with someone you don't know. Isco squints at him, but decides that he's probably not an undercover serial killer, because dying your hair neon pink seems counterproductive to keeping a low profile.

"Why?"

Pink hair guy stretches luxuriously, then settles back into his chair with a satisfied sigh. 

"My artist," he says simply. Isco waits for further explanation, but none comes.

"What about him?" 

"He wants me to be on stage so he can shout at me and blame me for the fact that he can't hit the high notes. And, occasionally, so that I can play the keyboard. But mostly shouting." Pink hair guy checks his watch. "We were meant to meet up about half an hour ago for a pre-rehearsal rehearsal, but fuck that, I'm not spending any more time with Hummels than I'm contractually obliged to."

“Well that sounds…” Isco searches for a nice way to put his thoughts into words and finds there is none. “Awful. That sounds awful. You’re aware this is a singing contest, right? And that you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to?”

“I’m pretty sure he’d murder me if I skipped out now. Literally, come to my room in the dead of night and strangle me as he sings into my ear and gives me a brain aneurysm.”

Isco snorts. “You’ve been thinking about that a lot, haven’t you?”

“It is an image that may or may not haunt my nightmares.”

Isco is about to ask how neon pink hair guy even found himself in this situation when Sergio knocks on the door and pops his head inside.

“Isco, it’s time for your first dress rehearsal. You ready to rock it, big man?”

“I am neither big, nor a man,” Isco replies in the most deadpan voice possible. “Also, I haven’t had my hair done yet.”

Sergio waves him off. “You’re not doing anything with it anyway. Come on, let’s do this first.”

“Fine,” Isco says, pretending to be annoyed when in reality any excuse to get out of the makeup room quicker is a good one in his book. Before he leaves, he turns to his new friend and says, “Good luck.”

Neon pink hair guy waves him off with a small, quiet grin on his face. “Same to you. Break a leg.”

Isco frowns. “That’s an expression they use in the theatre world, not here.”

“It’s English and it’s an expression for good luck. It works,” neon pink hair guy replies. Isco wants to argue further and how no, it doesn’t work, but Sergio is tapping his foot impatiently and Iker is behind him looking like he wants to shoot himself, so Isco moves along. They can argue about this later.

Last year’s Eurovision winner was Great Britain with Joe and the Lads, infamous for how they accidentally set half the stage on fire during their performance. They managed to save their asses when the bass player, Harry Kane, _backflipped_ through the fire and pretended the whole thing was part of their act. It had been impressive. Also crazy and dangerous, but again, impressive. Isco had spent the entire flight to Cardiff trying to convince Carvajal to do a similar thing, but to no avail. 

The dye Carva had used in his beard was, apparently, highly inflammable. Go figure.

Isco’s performance, from what Isco has gathered from Iker, is one of the most complicated in the show. Weird, if you consider there’s no dancing whatsoever involved. Not so weird, however, if you consider the amount of lights and special effects Isco and Sergio—one of the few things they agreed on—requested. Pair that with Isco’s habit of jumping around the stage as he performs, a high amount of coordination and planning is involved in making sure Isco’s act isn’t a total failure.

His rehearsal takes over two hours and near the end of it, Isco has drunk three bottles of water to keep his throat wet and only tripped on stage _once_.

“Alright, let’s repeat it one more time with everything this time. This means lights, confetti, smoke machine and wind maker. Everyone to their places,” shouts Iker. Isco finishes his fourth bottle of water before he throws it off stage. He would complain about being run to the ground except he has to admit, despite the eyeliner and the piranhas and all the silly bits in his act, Isco is actually taking this seriously.

His performance may be competing for first place as Eurovision’s most bizarre performance in history, but goddammit, if Isco and his team have any say in it, it’s also going to be the most well-executed, perfectly articulated Eurovision has ever seen.

_Professionalism._

By the time his last dress rehearsal ends, the next act has already lined up for their time on stage, and there’s a significant crowd watching Isco, who applaud him when he’s done. Isco waves at everyone and tries not to feel too smug.

“Well done,” a voice to his right tells him. Isco turns until he sees neon pink hair guy standing off to the side, away from all the tech people and thus, away from all the confusion.

“Thank you,” Isco replies, smiling at him. He takes neon pink hair guy’s reciprocating smile as an encouragement and starts walking towards him. Unfortunately, the moment is ruined when Sergio shows up out of nowhere and interrupts whatever pink hair guy was about to say next.

“We have to discuss your act,” he says, and Isco only has enough time to flash neon pink hair guy another brief smile before he’s being dragged onto the other side of the stage.

They only talk about Isco’s performance for a second. Sergio thinks it needs more glitter, Isco thinks Sergio can fuck off. Isco desperately needs a shower, but before he can leave the next artist starts to play and Isco figures he can stick around long enough to watch him.

Isco is not quite sure what happens next, if it’s something he did or if the guy just happens to look at him as he performs and thinks, _oh yes_. Regardless, as Swedish Man With a Huge Saxophone performs, he catches Isco’s eye and then he won’t look away. Not even after he’s done playing and his sound people start talking to him. Throughout the whole thing he just won’t. Stop. Staring.

“Isco,” that’s Nacho, one of Isco’s guitarists and one of the few people from their committee still around. There’s a wicked cool moment in their act where Nacho strums with his teeth. Isco is kind of in love with him. “I know we’ve only been here for three days, but did you fuck that guy?”

“What?” Isco’s eyes widen in pure terror. “Of course not, Jesus. I don’t even know him.”

“Alright, if you say so.” Nacho shrugs. Isco continues to stare blankly in horror. “He’s still looking at you,” Nacho informs him. Isco makes the mistake of whipping his head around to see, making eye contact with the Swedish guy again just as the guy starts walking in his direction while still playing the saxophone. It’s like a scene straight out of the porno labeled as ‘Other’ on Redtube.

“Oh god, he’s coming this way,” Isco groans. When he doesn’t get a reply, he looks to where Nacho was only two seconds ago and is met with an empty space. The fucking traitor left him. Shit. Shit. Shit.

Isco starts frantically searching for any kind of exit. He makes desperate, pleading eye contact with pink hair guy over the guy's shoulder as the saxophone shrieks so violently that he's half afraid the stage will collapse around them.

_Help me,_ Isco mouths. Pink hair guy looks around wildly for some way of distracting the giant without being punched in the face. Thankfully, the giant chooses that moment to end the solo with a note so high Isco swears he can hear glasses shattering in the green room.

The giant takes a few seconds to catch his breath before stepping closer to Isco, saxophone held casually by his side like it hasn't just inflicted hearing damage on everyone in the immediate vicinity.

"I am Zlatan," he says

"Oh. Hi. Um. I'm Isco." Isco replies, subtly edging towards the wings. Either the guy can't see past his ego how uncomfortable Isco is, or he just doesn't care. He places a large hand on Isco's shoulder, stopping his slow shuffle to freedom. 

It's probably a bit of both, Isco decides.

"Isco," Zlatan muses. "Interesting name. It is short for something, yes? Maybe it is short for Disco, and that is why you are here?" He laughs, loudly and obnoxiously, at his own joke, and Isco wants to hit the guy with his own saxophone. He decides to just stick it out, and then avoid Zlatan for the rest of the week.

"So... Zlatan. Is that a..." Isco winces internally. This is not how he imagined his day would go. “Is that a common Swedish name, or?"

"Zlatan's name may be common, but Zlatan himself is unique. Is why the act is named Zlatan and the Saxophone,” Zlatan says. It takes Isco a few seconds to realise the guy is speaking about himself in third person like any casual serial killer would. Isco starts doing his slow shuffle to freedom again.

"Oh," Isco says politely, trying for a smile.

"Is a pun," Zlatan explains, then hesitates. "No, a metaphor." 

Isco knows he shouldn’t ask. He knows nothing good will come of saying another word to this man. He knows it deep in his bones, and still, he does the idiotic, and he asks, "A metaphor for what?" 

"My penis," Zlatan says, looking at Isco with all the predatory appreciation a lion would give to a rump steak. 

If hell is a real place, Isco has just found it.

"Ich glaube, er gleicht da metaphorisch etwas anderes aus, oder?" says a voice in Isco's ear, and an arm settles across his shoulders. Isco is about to yell at the second slime ball to hit on him in as many minutes when he looks up and sees a shock of highlighter-pink hair above a truly exceedingly good-looking face.

Isco has no idea what pink hair guy just said to him, and judging from the way Zlatan is looking at the pair of them, neither does he.

"Ja?" Isco tries, that being a third of all the German he knows. Pink hair guy smiles widely and pulls Isco closer to him, turning to walk away. Zlatan clears his throat, and Isco slowly turns back. Angering a guy who speaks about himself in third person and is likely a serial killer is not high on his priorities list.

"You are going, then," Zlatan says.

"I, uh..." Isco stammers.

"Yes," pink hair guy says for him. "Yes, he is." Zlatan shoots him a look of pure contempt, then sneers at Isco.

"You will regret this when Sweden are once again crowned winners of Europe, Disco," he says, brandishing his saxophone at them. Thankfully, it’s his non-metaphorical one.

"Actually," Isco says, before he can think about what he's saying, "there are no saxophones in my song. We don't really need metaphors." Zlatan stares in confusion and pink hair guy quickly steers them away before he figures it out.

"Thank you," Isco says, when they're far enough away that Zlatan will have a hard time finding them. 

"It's okay," pink hair guy replies. He takes his arm off Isco's shoulders, and Isco feels a momentary pang of disappointment before the guy holds out his hand for Isco to shake. "Toni," he says.

"Disco," Isco says, then freezes as he realises his mistake. "I, uh, I meant Isco," he says. Toni laughs softly and Isco ignores the part of his brain pointing out how the corners of his eyes wrinkle when they smile.

"Nice to meet you, Isco," Toni says, and Isco knows then that he is well and truly fucked.

— — —

Make up, after that, becomes a cross between absolute torture and the highlight of Isco's day. Toni is dry, witty, and speaks English well enough that within a few days he seems to know everyone backstage and in production. Isco would be lying if he said he wasn't jealous, but he's not sure if it's of Toni or the countless techs he seduces daily with quick remarks and puns that are (and Isco would never admit it to Toni's face) actually half decent. Toni doesn't even look like he knows the effect he has, his relaxed and carefree chatter completely natural to him.

Despite the huge number of people involved in the show, they still manage to run into one another every day, eventually becoming friends. Who knew excessive amounts of sarcasm could bond people instead of creating a divide?

They do a lot of things together besides getting their make up done, such as squabbling for a crab burger.

"Move up,” Isco hisses at Toni, as they browse the weird and wonderful selection in front of them. Isco had never known that foods could clash, but he can now personally attest that putting fish pies next to beet borscht is offensive both to the nose and the soul.

“No," Toni hisses back. "You don't get to tell me to move just because you want the last crab burger. First come, first served."

Isco rolls his eyes, and pulls a quietly protesting Toni past the prized crab burger plate, over to the weird German sausages he knows Toni likes. He leans in close and Toni freezes as Isco's lips brush his ear. 

"You see that guy behind me?" Isco whispers. Toni nods slowly. He’s Great Britain's act for this year, a shy youngster whose costume makes Isco feel thankful that Sergio is his designer.

("What is that?" Isco squints, despite being more than close enough to the stage to see. "Velvet? Why is he wearing a velvet jacket?"

"I think it looks great," Toni protests, leaning casually against a staging block like that doesn't cause his t-shirt to ride up and show off his abs. Isco forces himself to freak out silently, and falls back to sarcasm. Sarcasm is the one thing that will never let him down. 

"Of _course_ you do," Isco says. Toni pokes him in the stomach. It tickles for a second before it becomes an intimate warmth that sends Isco's thoughts spiraling somewhere they shouldn't go to when listening to a ballad about the importance of your homeland. Isco curses sarcasm, which is apparently fake as fuck.)

"That's Bale," Isco informs him. "He's totally got a crush on Ronaldo." 

To be fair, Isco is pretty sure everyone has at least a little crush on Ronaldo. He's like a cross between Apollo and Athena, except with better dance moves. His act means that for once, Portugal isn’t showing up with a godawful ballad. His song has vague latino vibes with a lot of pop and shimmying thrown in the mix, which Ronaldo naturally excels at.

The man in question is now standing next to Bale, who is blushing so intensely that his cheeks are the same shade as the generic ketchup bottles scattered along the table. Ronaldo doesn't appear to notice, too absorbed in finding something vaguely healthy amidst the sea of calories before him.

"He looks like he wants to disappear," Toni whispers. "Maybe we should go there and save him.”

Isco scoffs. ”He'll be fine,” he insists, steering Toni away from the buffet table. Toni gives the crab burger a forlorn look.

“But what if he messes up and says something horribly embarrassing that will haunt him for years until he finally can’t handle the shame anymore and has to end his own life to stop it?” Toni asks. Isco stares with jaw on the floor. Toni shrugs.

“It could happen,” he adds, still staring at the goddamn crab burger like its the most appetising thing on earth.

“It’s a crab burger. It’s not even that good.”

Toni gives Isco a look of utter repulse. “Speak for yourself. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a crab burger to eat and an Englishman to rescue.”

Isco shakes his head. He can’t allow Toni to ruin what is obviously an important conversation to Bale and Ronaldo’s relationship. True love must prevail.

“He’s Welsh and I’m not letting you ruin their moment. Come on, follow me,” Isco says, grabbing Toni’s arm and dragging him off to the side where there’s no one around. Then, Isco does the only thing he can do, and he crawls underneath the catering tables.

A few seconds later, a bob of pink hair pushes up the white cloth covering the tables and crawls to Isco’s side. “Had to finish my sausage,” Toni explains.

They crawl one in front of the other, bypassing curious stains and food drops on the way. The path to the crab burger plate isn’t a long enough, but it still gives them time to contemplate many of life’s mysteries while they’re there, isolated from the rest of the world by a piece of cloth and a meter of height.

“You know, when I was invited to Eurovision, I never imagined I would find myself crawling on the dirty floor with a Spanish man in the quest for a burger.”

Isco twists his head until he can look at Toni. “Is this a bad thing?” he asks. Toni shakes his head and grins ruefully at him.

“The most fun I’ve had the past few days has all been with you, so no. Just an observation, really.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re having fun.” Isco turns his head so he can hide his cheesy smile from Toni. “I’m having fun, too.”

Toni starts to reply, but Isco quickly shushes him. “We’re here,” he whispers, acting as if they had walked to Mordor and not crawled three meters to the burger plate.

Toni continues crawling until he’s by Isco’s side. There is not nearly enough space underneath such a small corridor for two grown men to sit side by side, but Toni seems unbothered, pressing himself against Isco’s body until they’re practically glued together.

“What are they talking about?” Toni asks, looking up even though they can’t see Bale and Ronaldo through the table. They stop talking to listen to the conversation, which, technically, can’t be considering snooping as they had come there for a crab burger and not a hot piece of gossip.

“I think Bale is completing Ronaldo’s hair,” Isco guesses after a few seconds.

“Oh, good one. Ronaldo loves his hair.”

Isco lifts an eyebrow at Toni. “And you know that because…?”

“He’s a famous singer and I never bring anything to read with me during small flights. You do the maths.”

“So you’re a Ronaldo fan, got it,” Isco concludes, flashing Toni a shit-eating grin when he sees the other man squint at him. “Go grab the damn burger already before someone else takes it.”

Toni grumbles something about no one being able to take it if they had just walked there like they should have, but he does as he’s told. He slips his hand past the small fraction of space between the table and the wall and spends a few seconds groping around until he finds the promised treasure and returns victorious.

They’re making their way back, Toni on three stands as one of his hands is rather occupied holding the burger, when an angry-looking Ronaldo and a confused-looking Bale pull up the tablecloth and reveal their secret path.

“What the fuck are you two doing?” Ronaldo asks.

Isco glances at Toni, who literally has his whole mouth stuffed with the crab burger and, as such, is unable to answer. “Endurance test?” Isco suggests, half-smiling, half-cringing. His voice sounds two octaves higher than it normally does and Toni starts choking when he hears it, the idiot.

They have no choice but to crawl back to the land of the standing people, quickly introduce themselves to Ronaldo and give no further explanations before they make a run for it.

It’s only when it’s just the two of them in one of the dressing rooms that the ridiculousness of what they’d just done hits Isco. He starts to laugh uncontrollably, until there are tears in his eyes and he can’t breathe. Toni laughs with him and all Isco can think is that together, they make quite a pair.

On another occasion, they go for a scenic walk on the lights fixture above the stage and are quickly told to fuck off when someone from production spots them. Toni’s hair, with all of its lovely neon shine, makes it rather hard for them to be inconspicuous. They go out for drinks with the French duo, Benzema and Varane, and, despite their drunkenness, impress a bunch of English people when it’s their turn at the karaoke machine, a fact Isco is quite proud of.

In Toni’s company, Isco enjoys himself more than he ever thought he would participating in Eurovision. The experience is almost all good. Key word being, obviously, _almost_.

It happens when Toni is called onstage for Germany’s second dress rehearsal. Isco is in the audience. He’s seen Toni perform a couple of times—Youtube is a gift that keeps on giving—and the chance to watch Toni live isn’t one he’s missing.

Isco isn't one to judge other people, and he recognises the pressure some of the acts are under, but sometimes you just know when someone is a dick and Toni's singer? Is a major dick the size of XXL condoms after one too many injection to still work properly.

Mats Hummels, or Bee Sting as he prefers to be known, has an ego of such astronomical proportions that Isco can feel it smack him across the face every time he goes within 50 metres of the man.

"For god’s sake!" said egotistical maniac exclaims, brandishing his microphone so hard it almost flies out of his hand. From the corner of his eye, Isco sees a techie duck on reflex. Mats switches to German, launching a screaming barrage of insults at his musicians, who mostly just stare at him with the dead-eyed resignation of people who've had to deal with this many times already.

"...fucking idiots!" Hummels screams, then storms off the stage. As he passes Toni, he shoves blindly at the keyboard, which skids backwards, knocking Toni over. Before Isco knows what's he doing, he's up onstage and lifting Toni off his ass. 

"Fucking dick," Isco spits, at Hummels' retreating back. "Who does that to someone?"

“Excuse me?” someone yells, making Isco curse internally.

Note to self: don’t insult dickwads when said dickwads are nearby to hear you insult them.

“It’s nothing, Mats. He didn’t say anything,” Toni replies, already getting up and stepping forward so that he’s shielding Isco from view.

“Who the fuck is that?” Hummels asks. Before Toni can reply for him again, Isco steps forward, giving Mats a tight-lipped smile and his hand for him to shake. Mats does, slightly disgruntled, while Isco tries to pop all the bones in his hand.

“Isco Alarcón from Spain,” he says.

“You’re the piranha guy?” 

Isco’s grin stretches wider, until it’s threatening to rip his face in half. “The one and only, and I take it that you’re this year's diva singer. Couldn’t have the show without one, could we?”

“Who the hell do you think you are?” Mats asks him, and that’s an easy one.

“I’m the guy who just saw you pushing my friend, dickwad. If you don’t appreciate him, please just go ahead and say the word. I’d be more than happy to have someone as talented as Toni — who, by the way, can do much better than you — join my act.”

Mats' expression at this point has morphed into a horrifying cross between an over exaggerated pout and pure hatred. It actually looks hilarious, but Isco senses that, at this point, laughing is likely to get him punched in the face.

Then Isco notices that Mats' eyebrow is still arching, climbing up his forehead like some kind of bizarre threaded slug, and he can't hold in the snort. 

As expected, Mats tries to punch him in the face. 

Isco flails backwards into Toni, Mats' fist sweeping just past his nose and straight into Iker's hand. Iker doesn't say anything, just stares hard at Mats until Mats shrugs his shoulders and backs off. He continues staring as Mats stalks away down the corridor, muttering something about meddling Spaniards, like a pissed off statue.

This effect is ruined when Mats disappears from view and Sergio bounces up to Iker and starts snogging him there and then while everyone is still staring at them in shock. Iker kisses back before he lets out a surprised grunt and abruptly reverts back to his usual grumpy self. Sergio, either oblivious or just not bothered, hugs him tightly.

"Our hero," he says. Isco opens his mouth to argue that the real hero was Toni, snapping it shut when he realises what a monumentally bad idea that would be. It was beginning to grow obvious Isco had a bit of a crush on Toni, but he didn’t need the rest of Europe to know as well.

"Were you going to say something?" Toni asks, apparently the only one paying attention to Isco.

“No, nothing,” Isco says, looking away before he takes the coward’s way out and changes the subject. “Are you okay?”

This time, it’s Toni’s turn to look away in embarrassment. “I am, thanks for coming to my defense. You didn’t need to, but I appreciate it anyway. Also thanks to your friend for being a badass and giving Mats the scare of death. That was awesome.”

Neither Iker’s nor Sergio’s English is the best, but they can both tell when Iker is receiving a compliment. Sergio flashes Toni a huge smile while Iker shakes his head like what he did was nothing much.

“You weren’t kidding when you said he was a major dick,” Isco tells him.

“No, but it’s fine. The first semi-final is tomorrow, and then after that it’s just four more days until it's our time to hit the stage and we go home.”

Isco nods and tries to smile. Toni is right. Just five more days until they all go home.


	2. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Eurovision semi-finals are a joy to watch, especially when your country is one of the Big Five and you don’t have to worry about whether or not you’ll make it to the final.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Sorry for how long it took us to finish this chapter. It turns out we're both lazier than we thought. Anyway, we really hope you enjoy the end of this story and if you do, please leave a kudos/comment!

The Eurovision semi-finals are a joy to watch, especially when your country is one of the Big Five and you don’t have to worry about whether or not you’ll make it to the final.

Isco spends all of his time either lost in the crowd or backstage, dancing with his bandmates and pretending to sing along to songs he’s never heard before, always with a drink in his hand. Nacho is, against all odds and common sense, ridiculously good at breakdancing, even while drunk, and Dani will drink anything off anyone’s bodies, which proves great fun.

They’re joined by Toni halfway through the night after Isco spots him in the crowd. It’s the neon pink hair, Isco tells himself, and not the fact that he spent the past half an hour blinking at the people around him in hopes of finding a pair of curious blue eyes he’s grown stupidly fond of. After he’s got him, Isco latches onto him for the rest of the show because Toni is fun and he has an amazing sense of humour and Isco wants him around. 

At one point, the camera catches the two of them practicing a few dance moves together and broadcasts it to the whole world. The next day, Isco has five thousand new followers on Instagram and he’s emphatically forbidden from hanging out with Toni.

“It looks bad,” Iker tells him.

“What? Iker please, that’s xenophobic. How does hanging out with a german look bad? I know they’re not everyone’s favorite country, but give me a break.” 

“I meant your dance moves,” Iker corrects, showing not one sign of guilt. “You two were grinding on one another.”

Isco huffs. “That’s ridiculous. The two of us were just dancing. We were channeling our inner Michael Jackson for everyone to admire.”

“Actually,” Sergio adds, “you were grinding on each other.” Isco opens his mouth to complain, closing it swiftly when a phone is thrust into his hands.

There he sees, on Youtube, an interesting video of him and Toni grinding their front halves on one another as Greece performed yet _another_ song about love and alcohol.

Huh. At least the dance fit the song.

It’s quite a short clip, just a two-second blip before the person behind the camera realizes what they’re filming and pans somewhere else. Nevertheless, it’s enough to make the people around them worry.

“Who knows what you two will do during the next show? Start violently making out? Give each other a quick handjob? We can’t have you banned from Eurovision for indecent behavior.”

“We’re just friends,” Isco insists, but the argument sounds weak even to his own ears.

“Friends don’t grind on each other while looking at one another like they wanna fuck each other’s brains out,” Sergio says, as unapologetic as ever. He shrugs when Isco and Iker give him an identical look of disbelief. “What? It’s true.”

“You two can hang out with each other, just not when the cameras are rolling and preferably not when you’re both so drunk you forget what you’re doing,” Iker says.

It’s reasonable request. Isco has no choice but to nod his head in silent agreement, even if a part of him is already sulking at the thought that he won’t get to be with Toni during the next semi-final.

After Iker leaves, Sergio turns to him and gives him a probing look. He runs his eyes through Isco’s body and puts one of his hands on Isco’s shoulders. “A lot of good things can come from a dirty grind on the dance floor.” He inclines his head at the door that Iker had just passed through.

Isco’s eyes widen as far as they can. “Iker?” Sergio closes his eyes and nods, appearing far wiser than you’d think him capable, a weird look on him. “You and him got together by… grinding on each other?”

“Yupe,” Sergio says with a loud pop of the ‘p’ before quickly adding. “Well, there was also a lot of yelling, at least two and a half dramatic love confessions, one large bouquet of white roses, way too much beer and this weird statue of a man holding a platypus that we found in Tasmania. The grinding, though, that was the most important part.”

Isco nods. He can’t picture Iker, whose version of dancing is an awkward shuffle and who spends most of his time complaining that the english are all horrible at their jobs, grinding with anyone, in any scenario, ever, but if Sergio says it, then at least part of the story must be true.

Sergio gives him another look, pats him on the back and moves to the door. He’s almost out of the hotel room when Isco asks, “How did you do it?”

The grin Sergio flashes him is blinding. “Can’t tell you, otherwise it’d be too easy. You have to figure it out on your own.” And with that helpful comment he’s out the door, leaving Isco alone with his thoughts.

Isco does the only thing he knows how to do in times like these  — he throws himself on the floor and makes sad whale noises for the next twenty minutes or so.

Of course, Isco was aware of his own feelings. Only someone in touch with their inner self could write a song about piranhas and make it sound cool, thank you very much. It’s just that he had hoped he could keep his rapport with Toni low-key since it’s not as if they’ll have many chances to be together after Eurovision ends.

The whole grinding business makes things complicated because for once in Sergio’s life, he was right about something. No matter what some of Isco’s twitter followers might say, friends don’t just _grind_ on each other, especially not when their relationship is meant to be low-key.

To top it all off and conclude yet another wonderful episode of Isco’s soap opera life is the fact that, since the reanimation of his memories, new images from last night have come to shore. Now, whenever Isco closes his eyes, he sees Toni grinding against him, looking lovely and debauched underneath the artificial lights. From now on, let’s just say it won’t be easy looking at Toni without remembering how clever he can be with those hips.

Isco’s sad whale noises grow louder.

He tries to tell himself that, at least, he won’t have to see Toni during the second semi-final, but that thought only depresses him further after quick examination. The rest of Isco’s night is spent writing about orcas and how love is like a fart. It’s not exactly his best work, but he thinks he can make a demo of it.

In a not surprising turn of events, his plan goes to shit less than five minutes into Thursday’s show when Toni, in a mirror act of Tuesday, spots Isco in the crowd and holds onto him like a limpet.

Of course, it could be argued that Isco doesn’t help the situation by saying something along the lines of, “I’m so happy you’re here! You’ve got to stay with me. It’s no fun without you.”

But, you know, details are details.

“Seriously?” Sergio asks when he bumps into the two of them. 

Toni is drinking beer like it’s water all night, to make sure anyone who doubts his nationality is now completely doubt-free. To compensate, Isco has been sipping the same glass of rum and coke since the beginning of the night. Keeping a respectable distance from each other hasn’t been easy, with most of the work coming from Isco, but they’re managing alright.

“We only have two more days together. Come on,” Isco says, hoping the desperation he feels isn’t replicated in his voice, “you can’t take this from me.”

“Just don’t do anything stupid,” Sergio asks. Isco nods. It’s the least he can do.

“What were you talking about?” Toni asks after Sergio has left, probably to find Iker and ask him for a dance.

“About how Portugal has a real chance of winning this year.” Isco is not a fan of mainstream music, but even he has to admit it. “Ronaldo is awesome.”

Toni grins. “He is, but you’re pretty awesome too. It’s hard to predict who is going to win,” he says, flashing Isco a toothy smile. His face is cherry pink and he’s squinting so hard his eyes are closed and Isco could kiss him, right then and there.

He pulls him in for a hug instead, not wanting to fuck things up.

Isco spends a lot of time thinking about how easy it’d be to drag Toni into a bathroom and just kiss him, once and for all. Then he spends a lot of time thinking about how horrible of an idea that is.

Kissing him could ruin everything. Toni could say ‘no’. The words would slip from his mouth without needing second-though. Isco’s heart would clench painfully in his chest in response and Isco can’t handle that right now, two days from the final, two days before this all ends. He can’t.

Their arms brush as they dance, their elbows knock every so often and more than once, they step on each other’s toes. Despite it, Isco couldn’t even dream of stepping away. Toni’s presence is constant by his side, heavy and warm. He laughs against Isco’s ear whenever something funny happens and sings along with his mouth pressed against Isco’s neck as if it’s normal. As if that’s something all people do.

Near the end of the night, while Malta’s singer begins to fly through the air attached to a couple of invisible cables—it goes without saying that Isco is jealous and wishes he’d thought of a similar idea for his act—someone bumps into Toni. They hit his shoulder hard, sending Toni flying into Isco’s space. Their breaths mingle and Isco spends a moment looking at Toni’s eyes. He’s so fucked. So, so fucked.

“Hey man, sorry,” says the guy who crashed into them. He’s built like a thin giant, towering over them but also looking a bit like a cricket or maybe a stick-bug.

Toni shrugs. His mouth is a thin line of pastel pink. Someone else would probably say, “no problem,” but Toni isn’t one for false niceties. Isco may or may not find that hot.

“Nice hair,” stick-bug guy says, sounding altogether too condescending for someone dressed in all khaki.

“Nice outfit,” Toni says as if reading Isco’s mind. “Did you pick it as a fashion statement or are you just into the colour of vomit?”

Isco is struck between being horrified—the guy might have the muscle frame of a bug, but getting into a fight tonight is definitely a ‘no go’—and endlessly amused. He makes a laughing noise, decides against it halfway through and ends up choking on air. Butter smooth.

Toni notices it, of course, and lifts one eyebrow in amusement. It’s amazing how expressive eyebrows can be, what with the fact that they’re just assortments of hair on people’s faces.

Stick-bug is too shocked to reply, or maybe he’s too drunk. Regardless, his girlfriend, a tiny red-haired, pulls him away and they’re gone before Isco has time to blink, forever lost in a crowd of people cheering along. On stage, the last act of the night, a woman from Denmark, sings about love and acceptance.

Isco’s sure that all the mentions of ‘going downtown’ with her ‘girlfriend’ are a metaphor for something else, so he makes sure to cheer as loud as everyone else.

The night ends with confetti in the air and the promise of more fun on Saturday. Isco goes to bed alone. He spends more than one hour staring at the ceiling. How one could feel so drunk after only one rum and coke is beyond him.

The next day, they barely see each other. They’re both too busy with their own acts to have time for anything but a shared lunch. A meatball sandwich and a coke for Isco and crab burgers for Toni. It’s a quiet moment hidden by the light fixtures, removed from all the noise and confusion down below. They’re in the eye of the storm, the two of them.

Isco stares far too much, wanting to commit this moment to memory. He admires Toni’s profile, a a mixture of stoic lines and soft dips. He’s got a big nose, but it’s his eyes that are the center of attention with their focused precision. He looks like he was carved out of a piece of crystallized wood.

“Are you nervous?” Toni asks him, seemingly taking Isco’s silence as a sign of anxiety.

“Of course,” Isco tells him. “Aren’t you?”

“I wanna do my best, but let’s just say I won’t shed a tear if something goes wrong with Mr. Bee Sting’s performance.”

“So cold,” Isco says, shaking his head. “So german.”

Toni gives him a light punch in the arm and Isco nearly loses his footing when he tries to escape. Toni has to hold him close to make sure Isco doesn’t fall and break his neck. It’s a scene straight out of an eighteenth-century novel. Isco spends the rest of the day thinking about Toni’s citrus-y aftershave and how easily he held Isco.

He gets a lot of looks from his bandmates and technical team, which he dutifully ignores.

Anyone who says ignoring a problem won’t solve it has yet to meet Francisco Román Alarcón Suárez.

And then the day comes, and everything is so big and intense and incredible that Isco manages to forget about Toni for hours on end, too distracted by the fact that _holy fuck, he’s about to perform in front of thousands of people as millions watch him in their television screens._

Oh yes, he’s definitely nervous.

“You’ll do fine. We have everything planned. You know all the lyrics by heart and have all the dance moves memorized. Nothing can go wrong,” Iker tells him.

Not five seconds later, Carvajal throws up all over Illarramendi’s shoes.  He then throws up several more times in the nearest bathroom while Illarra attempts to clean his shoes without gagging. Outside, Sergio holds Isco back from murdering his boyfriend and thereby ruining the entire act.

"You fucker, you tempted fate—"

"Iker is the only one who knows every single lighting and sound direction of the song by heart," Sergio reminds him. “You can't kill him. He's also my boyfriend, so you doubly can't kill him."

Iker, to his credit, looks a bit downtrodden, like he feels genuinely guilty for what he’s done.

Isco calms down in time for everyone to hear the horrific groaning noise coming from the bathroom. It sounds like tortoises having sex.

At this point, Isco has no choice but to accept that he's probably going to be short a bassist.

Still, there's no harm in trying, so he waits until he's pretty sure that Carvajal hasn't got anything left in his stomach to politely tap on the door. Dani moans weakly. 

“How are you feeling?” Isco asks.

“I’m dying,” Dani replies. Who knew him to be such a pessimist? Isco makes a disapproving _tsk tsk_ noise.

"Now, obviously, this is a minor setback.” Behind Isco, Iker and Sergio snort at him. Isco is going to _murder_ someone. "But who knows? Maybe this is just one of those four hour bug things."

"I think you mean 24 hours," Iker snarks and Isco flips him off behind his shoulders.

"Shut _up,_ " he hisses. "Look, Dani, bro, I don't want you to die on stage or anything, but if there is any way you can still perform,  please take a moment to think about all the long, long hours we spent rehearsing and your truly amazing bass solo that’s going to put the epic sax guy to shame. Also, I don’t think this even bears mentioning, but I’d like to remind you that this is our biggest show yet and how long have you been playing with me, Daniel? At least two years. You can’t miss this night. Thousands will be watching!”

In response, Carva dry retches. So much for motivational speeches. Isco sighs, leaning his forehead against the wooden door separating them.

“Dani, my sweet child. My sunflower. My hunky Ellen DeGeneres,” Isco pleads, but to no avail. Dani manages a thin, breathy _fuck off and leave me to die_ , forcing Isco to admit defeat.

With the help of Sergio, he drags Dani out of his self-inflicted exile, out of the building, across the road and up two hellish flights of stairs to the hotel floor they're staying on. 

They have to stop once they get to the corridor leading to their rooms, and while Carva sticks his head between his knees in misery, Isco looks up to see Bale coming down the hallway towards them. Isco nods at him.

"Is he okay?" Bale asks. Dani makes an indistinct noise. Isco goes to shakes his head, then aborts it into a faked muscle spasm.

If Bale knows that Isco is a bassist short, he'll end up telling Ronaldo. Ronaldo will probably be coerced into spilling the beans by the gloriously terrifying supermodel-singer who is representing Russia. Irina seems nice enough, but is also completely ruthless and would have no problem telling the whole of Europe if it suited her purposes. And if all the acts know that Isco's is doomed to failure before it's even begun, they won't see him as competition. Psychology will work its magic, and Isco will end up on the right hand side of the score board.

_Tactics._

"He's fine," Isco says, flashing an ample smile at Bale. "He just gets vertigo." Sergio is looking at him like he's gone mad, so Isco quickly clarifies. "From the stairs. Vertigo from the stairs."

"Oh," Bale mumbles. "Okay." He makes to leave, but Iker grabs his arm just as he's turning away. Isco closes his eyes and prays that Iker's terrible habit of being a morally decent human being is not about to show up.

"Ronaldo is in room 468," he tells him. Bale's cheeks go approximately the same colour as his suit, and he stutters out a _thank you_ , awkwardly moving away towards the stairs. As soon as he's gone, Isco turns on Iker.

"Did you just give him a random room number to get rid of him?" he demands. Iker looks at him impassively, and Isco deflates a little.

"No," Iker replies. "I gave him Ronaldo's room number, which will get rid of him for much longer." Sergio nods approvingly.

"We're saving your sorry ass and giving Bale and Ronaldo the push they need. Like a practical version of Cupid."

Isco briefly wonders what other kinds of Cupids there are, and if it works anything like Pokemon. Then he remembers that his, supposedly, professional tech team are acting like the Eurovision Song Contest is a high school drama and  he quietly questions how his life has gotten to this point.

"Is this all you guys do every year? Just set people up?" Isco asks. Sergio and Iker look thoughtful for a few seconds before shrugging and nodding in that weird synchronised way only annoyingly couple-y couples can do. "And they're your targets for this year? 

"Isco.” Sergio puts a hand on Isco’s shoulders and gives him a solemn look. “There’s no targets in life. Love isn’t a game. It is a destiny. A fate. A path we’re all walking on. Iker and I are just giving people better shoes. We’re putting some cement on the floor to make the journey easier.”

“Also,” Iker adds, “we have a bet to see who can identify the most couples and bring them together by the end of the show. The loser has to cook the other whatever they want for the next month. How are you and Toni doing, by the way?”

Isco takes a step back and glares at Iker. “And I thought you were the responsible one.”

“I’m many things,” Iker says as he shrugs, looking far too smug for Isco’s liking.

“Anyway,” Isco says, wanting to get things back to the issue at hand, considering he might soon suffer an aneurysm because of it. “Now what?” he asks, receiving similar looks of confusion from Iker and Sergio in return that have Isco rolling his eyes at them. “I can’t play with a missing band member, can I?”

“Why not? We have all the audio tracks ready to go, so it’s not like it matters if someone is missing. We’ll get one of the guitarists to pretend to play the bass and give them little solo. It’s the only thing we can do on such short notice,” Sergio says, which is possibly the worst thing he’s ever said, and that’s a heavy statement considering this is Sergio “eyeliner will look good on you” Ramos.

Isco flat-out gasps. He can’t believe he’s getting this from his team. He shakes his head and he rests two fingers on his forehead as he massages his scalp. Some people just do not understand artistic integrity. 

Granted, Isco’s contract had made it clear Sergio was only in charge of the visuals while Isco took care of the music, but still. The point still stands. “I need to have a real musician on stage.”

Sergio and Iker squint at him, already synchronized with Isco’s thoughts, but it’s Illarramendi, who has come to the the hotel for a change of clothes, who says, “We don’t have anyone else though, and it’s not like we can ask someone from another country to play for us.”

There is a pause that is full of loud, blaring silence. It’s a risky idea, but it could work. It could definitely work.

Isco grins. Sergio squints at him until only a miniscule slit of his eye can be seen. “He’s busy,” he says.

“The acts are at different times,” Isco refutes.

“He doesn’t know the song.”

“He’s seen me sing it a million times. He can string up a few keys to go along with it. I’ve seen him improvise amazing pieces before.” On youtube, from small private concerts Toni gave back in Germany. Not in front of thousands of people, but whatever. Sergio doesn’t need to know that.

“He might say no,” Sergio argues.

Isco shrugs. “Won’t know unless we ask.”

“Fine.” Sergio sighs. “Go ahead and ask your german boy toy to play with you. We’ll go back and get everything ready. Text me with his reply.”  He sounds resigned, but as he turns away Isco swears he can see a suppressed smile tugging at the corner of Sergio's mouth.

Not wanting to waste his chance, Isco shoots Toni a quick text saying ‘I need your help’ and power walks to the arena. He’d run, but the last time he exercised properly was three years ago, a constant source of irritation to his manager who thinks he’s getting fat. With Isco’s luck, he’d probably strain his ankle.

“What do you need?” are the first words out of Toni’s mouth when the two of them meet in a small dressing room backstage, just thirty minutes before the show begins. Toni’s a little out of breath and his cheeks tinged crimson. Isco cringes. He should have explained himself better in his text.

“My bassist is currently dying of food poisoning in his hotel room,” he says.

Toni nods, not chastising Isco for making him worry over such a thing. “I can ask Marco to help you. He’s great with a bass and he can just pretend to play—”

“Wait, no,” Isco says, interrupting him. “No offence, but I don’t want your german bandmate. I want you.”

Toni stares at him, momentarily stunned before he finds his footing again. “I don’t play the bass,” he says, looking at Isco like he’s missing a couple of neurons.

“I know, what I meant is I want _you_ to play the piano. You already know my song, you’ve seen me sing it a million times. All you have to do is come up a simple harmony to go with it.”

Toni goes from staring at Isco like he’s missing a couple of neurons to staring at him like he’s missing a whole brain.

“That is a terrible idea. We haven’t practiced anything together and I wouldn’t know what to play. I can’t just go with you on stage. This is Eurovision, not a small pub show.”

“Please, Toni. I really need your help and I trust you. Come on, I’ve seen you play. You’re awesome,” Isco begs, making puppy eyes at him. No one is above making puppy eyes to get something. No one.

“Can’t you just get someone to pretend to play the bass?” Toni asks, sighing as he pinches the bridge of his nose, which isn’t a refusal. Isco adds a pout to his expression, knowing he’s nearly got him.

“My performance is all live. You know that.”

Toni sighs again. “I do,” he agrees. 

Isco gives him a couple of seconds to mull things over before he speaks. “So you’ll do it?”

“It’s not like I have much of a choice, do I?” Toni flashes Isco a small, private smile. “Germany is one of the first performances of the night. I’ll sneak out afterwards and join you. We’ll figure things out then, although we should probably tell someone we’ll need the piano again.”

“Sergio’s got that covered. Thank you, Toni. Seriously, thank you.”

When Isco wheezes back into his dressing room, Iker says, "I expect an invite to your wedding and at least the middle name of your first child to be Sergio.”

Sergio, who had opened the door for Isco, gives him a meaningful look.

"Only if you find another Sergio that I can pretend I named them after," Isco shoots back. Iker inclined his head to the side, thinks things over and nods, conceding the point.

They make quick work on Isco’s makeup, making sure everyone else is dressed and ready to go too. Isco gets a quick promise that they’ll figure out something for Toni to wear before he is pushed out the door and forced to join the rest of the performers in the artist’s lounge.

Even though he knows his outfit is a cheap attention-grabbing mechanic, Isco has to admit his team did an amazing job in making him look _good_. Sure, people can see his nipples through his stupidly tight shirt, the leather pants leave little to the imagination, and the eyeliner makes him look like an emo kid, but it’s Eurovision. When else will he get the chance to stroll down a packed O2 arena as confetti falls from every corner and everyone is cheering so loudly he can’t hear himself think?

Joe and the Lads are the opening act, wearing bright multi-coloured suits and devastating grins. Isco sings along, not pretending to hide the fact that he knows all the lyrics to their trashy pop music and he _likes_ it.  Nacho makes heart-eyes at Jack Wilshere until Joe himself looks over in the middle of a verse to glare at him, making Isco laugh so much that his stomach cramps.

After that, it’s all business, as one after the other, artists leave to get on stage and sing in front of thousands. Isco cheers for every song, even the ones from artists who happen to be complete dickheads. Ignoring the fact that Mats Hummels is as unpleasant a person as you can get, his voice is the right amount of raspy and sweet and his song has a strong rhythm that has the audience thrumming with energy. Toni is amazing, hitting every note perfectly. He gives the camera a quiet smile that is going to have people swooning when it pans on him. It certainly makes Isco swoon, anyway.

Since Germany’s is one of the first acts of the night, Isco doesn’t see Toni until the moment he joins them in the lounge, halfway through the show, dressed in a different outfit from the one Isco had seen him in twenty minutes ago. He's wearing a suit, except not quite. The black trousers and jacket look freshly pressed, and fit him absurdly well for clothes bought in the last hour. Instead of a shirt, Toni is wearing a lurid pink mesh vest. 

" _What?_ " Isco asks.  If he’s a little weak on the knees, who can judge? No one, Isco tells himself. No one can judge him for being weak at the sight of Toni wearing a mesh vest.

"Thanks." Toni grins, looking down at where his nipples are poking through the vest. It's the same colour as his hair, and Isco forces his hands into his back pockets so he doesn't do something stupid like reach out and run his hands all over Toni's chest in front of most of Eurovision.

Nacho, finally tearing his eyes away from Wilshere's sparkling smile, lets out a low whistle as he notices Toni's outfit. Isco barely restrains himself from stepping forward to put himself in between Toni's abs and Nacho's appreciative gaze.

"I was wearing the suit anyway," Toni explains, running a hand through his hair. "Sergio and Iker just spiced it up a bit."

"A bit," Isco repeats,  unsure of what Toni would consider ‘spiced up a lot’ if this was his _little_.

“Do you like it?” Toni asks. If he doesn’t know the effect his words have on Isco, then he’s a lot more clueless than Isco would have imagined.

“It’s very eye-catching,” Isco says. It’s not the right thing to say because Toni’s smile loses part of its intensity, so Isco quickly adds, “It’s good. It fits you, what with the hair and the”— Isco waves his hands around. He has no clue what he’s trying to say— “everything. I like it. A lot.”

“Thanks,” Toni replies. Smallest of mercies, he at least looks as embarrassed as Isco. “Are you still sure about this? I could leave if you’ve changed your mind.”

Isco shakes his head. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

Toni nods, knocking his shoulders with Isco before he focuses on the stage. A few seconds later, Nacho leans in from Isco’s left and whispers in Isco’s ear.

“That conversation was probably the gayest thing I’ve ever seen and I once saw you suck off a guy in a bathroom stall.”

Isco pushes his friend away. Now’s not the time to punch Nacho in the dick.

After watching Ronaldo perform—Toni sings along to most of the song, impressive considering the lyrics are in Portuguese—they’re called backstage to get ready for Spain’s performance. Isco manages to remain semi-calm the entire time, even as his gut tells him death is coming. Either that or he’s going to shit himself on stage. 

“Just looking at you is making me nervous,” Toni tells him as they wait. Isco flips him off with his hand is shaking like he’s drank five too many cans of Red Bull.

Pre-show jitters are the worst.

“It’s going to be fine. We’re gonna nail it. You’re gonna make them cream their pants, Isco,” Nacho says. It’s not the best mental image, but Isco appreciates the feeling regardless.

“You are,” Toni whispers as they’re about to walk on stage, wholly sincere. “You are going to blow them all away.”

“I could say the same to you,” Isco replies and then they’re walking, moving to take their places, bodies about to burst from the excitement.  The lights dim before they raise. The weird swishy sound effect rushes, at least it seems to Isco, through him and out into the audience. 

A soft melody breaks the silence, just a couple of bars before the main backing track breaks in. It builds to a crescendo in the moment before Isco's spotlight comes on, and he lets himself get lost in the moment.

He would know how to do this with his eyes closed or in his sleep. He always connects with the crowd purely on instinct, his body moving him to the right places on stage without him needing to think about it. As he sings each word, he devotes himself more and more to the song, putting his soul and heart into it, pushing his voice until it might break.

There are many things that he can’t do, but this isn’t one of them. He might not be the best but right now, staring at thousands of people who cheer him at every step, every beat, some singing along, most just yelling — there is no doubt Isco can do this, and looking at his bandmates, there is no doubt they can do this either.

Like Isco predicted, Toni has picked up the song with no issues. He fits in with the rest of them like a handmade glove, cut and sewn to measure. He adds a different dimension to the song, a new level of intensity and passion.

It is, for lack of more descriptive words, absolutely fucking awesome. He hops around the stage like the piranhas he's singing about, letting the buzz of the crowd and thump of the bass from the speakers carry him past Nacho and Dani, who are head banging like concussion isn't real. He blows a kiss to his flautist when he's meant to take a breath, ends up gasping out the next line. Then, as Isco begins the lead up to the last chorus, the one where Nacho does the strumming-with-his-teeth bit, Isco is struck by a bolt of lightning.

In the space of about two beats, an idea plants itself in his mind. It shimmies his hips around, back to the audience, carries his feet over to the strobe-lit piano. It's vibrating from the intensity, thrumming at the touch of Toni's fingers.

Isco really relates to the piano.

Toni's hands are moving so fast that they're blurring over the notes. His tongue is tucked between his thin lips, trapped there in a moment of total surrender to the music.  He is as into the song as the rest of them and he is perfect, absolutely perfect, and there is nothing Isco wouldn’t do for him.

Toni, the fucking miracle, locks eyes with Isco and continues to play the sweet, rising melody that's lifting the song, Isco, the entire arena and everyone who is watching at home.  This is so much better than Isco could have imagined. It’s everything.

" _Come tu corazón y grita alto,_ " Isco tells him, and hopes to the stars that Toni doesn't think this is part of the act.

Toni grins at him, and mouths along with the next line, the one that Isco's hadn't dared to sing to him. “ _Soy un joven hambriento, con ganas de luchar_.”

“ _Y nadie en el mundo me puede parar!_ ” Isco finishes, hitting the high note at just the right moment so that it matches the fire rising behind him in the backdrop.

It’s beautiful, simply beautiful. Isco’s whole body shakes as he sings the last notes, the crowd cheering for him so loudly he can’t even hear himself. “Thank you, Europe. Thank you, everyone!” he shouts, grinning from ear to ear.

After he leaves the stage he’s immediately hit by a barricade of people, all rushing to hug him. Isco responds in kind, numerous thank you’s leaving his mouth one after the other.

“You were brilliant, kid. Fucking brilliant,” Iker tells him as Sergio lifts him from the ground in a bear hug. Congratulations are exchanged between the musicians, including, of course, Toni, who is radiating happiness.

“Thank you,” Isco says to him. It’s not enough to express what he’s feeling right now, not even close to enough, but there’s so much he wants to say lodged in his throat that this is all he’s got until he has the time to figure things out.

“It was my pleasure, Isco.” They smile at each other, momentarily lost to the world. 

“Come on,” Illarra says. “We need to go back to the green room.”

Ten more minutes of amazing performances and the show is over as the Graham Norton announces that voting has opened for all of Europe. Isco spends the whole thing jiggling his leg, occasionally stopping when Toni puts a hand on his knee and presses down. Speaking of which, Toni should probably go join Bee Sting. 

“Are you allowed to stay here?” Isco asks him as they wait.

Toni shrugs. “Maybe. Maybe not. Why? Do you want me to leave?”

Isco shakes his head. “Stay, please.”

Voting starts with Portugal in the lead, something that doesn’t change as host after host comes on to give Ronaldo twelve points. Isco can’t lie and say he’s not disappointed, but he can’t complain too much either. Spain gets their fair share of eights and tens, as well as some smaller votes. It’s more than they all expected, more than Spain has gotten in the past ten years. Germany is in the spotlight as well, battling for second with Sweden as Portugal leaves them to eat its dust.

Toni keeps glancing at Isco, obviously concerned with Isco’s reaction, but Isco can’t bring himself to look at him and tell him everything is fine, not until the end.

Portugal gives Spain twelve points and from the other side of the room, Cristiano gives Isco a big thumbs up. Next come Spain, who gives Portugal twelve points, closing the circle. Another three countries—San Marino, Switzerland and Belgium—give Isco twelve points, putting him in the race for second after Germany and Sweden lose points.

When the night ends with Portugal in first, Sweden in second and Spain in third, Isco cries big, fat tears. “It’s okay,” Toni tells him as he wraps Isco in his arms. Isco tries to explain himself, but he’s too busy embarrassing himself for the words to come out.

While Cristiano gets ready to perform for a second time that night, Toni grabs Isco by the arm and drags him to a corner backstage where they can talk in private.

“Hey, hey, come on, you were amazing,” Toni says. He looks so worried Isco has to laugh, and what he picture he must be, red-eyed and red-faced and panting as he laughs until he can’t breathe.

“I know, oh my god, Toni, I’m happy, not sad. I never thought I’d place in the top ten, much less top three. I sung about piranhas, for god’s sake. This is amazing.”

“Oh.” Toni pauses. “Oh, okay. Well, that’s good then.”

Isco nods his head. “I can’t remember the last time I’ve been this happy.”

“You deserve it. You deserve so much,” Toni says. Who knew him to be so sappy?

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” Isco replies. There is a mixture of adrenaline, pure happiness and blinding energy pumping through Isco’s veins, a voice in the back of his head that whispers, _Do it. You’ve both leaving tomorrow. It’s now or never. Just do it._

In a not surprising turn of events, said voice sounds a disturbingly like Sergio. Some battles a man just can’t win.

Isco takes a step forward, notices the way Toni’s smile grows a fraction bigger, and pushes himself on the tip of toes so he can kiss the giant in front of him on the lips. He barely feels anything, still way too out of it to be aware of anything that isn’t Toni’s lips on his lips, and Toni’s hand on the back of Isco’s neck and hip. Yupe, it’s official. If Isco were to die right now, he’d die an emotionally fulfilled man.

They kiss for a long time until Isco hears the crowd cheering incredibly loud, weird considering Cristiano has yet to enter the stage. Toni steps away just enough for them to look around, which is when Isco notices the camera panning them only two meters away from their figures. 

Huh. Had that always been there?

The red light on top of the lens is turned on, meaning of all the dozens of cameras in the arena, this is the one currently broadcasting to the world at large.

_Huh._ Interesting.

“I think we should leave soon,” Isco whispers.

“I think that’s a good idea,” Toni replies.

Isco spots Cristiano in the wings, with Bale stood behind him trying hard not to look like he's just been kissed senseless. Isco shoots both of them pleading looks until Cristiano rolls his eyes and pins Bale against the wall, providing an effective distraction for the cameras while Isco and Toni make their getaway. They head straight for the hotel, where Isco immediately tosses their phones in a drawer and turns the door key firmly in the lock.

They can deal with this problem later. There is far more important business at hand.

Toni pulls Isco close with one arm around his waist, his other hand reaching up to cup Isco's jaw. Isco is, for possibly the first time in his life, absolutely speechless. 

This time it's Toni who kisses him, pressing Isco against the door. It's way more uncomfortable than in the movies, and kind of cold, so Isco squirms against it. His hips rock forward in a barely-there tease until Toni loses patience and tugs Isco over to the bed. _Victory_ , Isco thinks as he lands on soft pillows. The thought if quickly followed by _oh fuck_ when Toni straddles him.

Light nips on his neck increase in pressure until Isco is moaning embarrassingly loud and wriggling against Toni. A bruise blooms on his skin.

"Where did that come from," Isco pants in between kisses, once Toni judges his throat suitably marked. Toni looks at the dark smudge staining tan skin, and up at Isco's faintly shocked, mostly blissful expression. He smirks.

"There was a banner.” His hand drops from Isco's waist, palming Isco's ass. Isco arches into him, crushing their bodies even closer together in the process. Toni rewards him with a kiss that leaves Isco breathless, unable to do anything but sag bonelessly into Toni's arms. "In the crowd. It said ‘Marry Me Isco’. I'm just making sure everyone knows who you belong to."

Isco laughs, even as Toni sinks to his knees and starts tugging off his jeans. When Toni takes Isco into his mouth, the laughter turns into a strangled curse.

— — —

Isco wakes up ridiculously early because he'd forgotten to turn off his alarm. For a brief, horrible second, he thinks that it was all a dream, that he's still got to perform and Carvajal isn’t sick and he's going to have to go home without ever —

Toni's arm reaches over Isco's shoulder, groping uncoordinatedly for Isco's phone, dropping it on the floor as soon as he's switched off the alarm. The feeling of relief that surges through Isco is so great that he doesn't even check to see if his phone survived the fall, just uncurls lazily, pressing back against Toni and tangling their legs together.

" _No..._ " Toni mumbles against his neck. "It's too early, let me sleep," but Isco can feel his warm smile. 


End file.
